


Wildflower

by Hipsterian



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Dirty Thoughts, M/M, Spicy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23547502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipsterian/pseuds/Hipsterian
Summary: Minho is a fashion designer. Seunghoon is the model he choses to work with.
Relationships: Lee Seunghoon/Song Minho | Mino
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Wildflower

**Wildflower**

He should have known that he was trouble.

  
Long and lean and wonderful; nothing good could come from him and his deviant smile. Not when he is sex on legs, carrying himself like a Goddess, his tan neck appealing, luring him, svelte, made out of marble, sculpted to by a masterpiece; it was a clear invitation for a sinner – a sinner like himself. He wanted to bite, to suck out his blood until getting drunk on it. He did nothing in the end, just stare at it, converted - seduced.

  
Lee Seunghoon was marvellous and Minho should have refused the offer – take any other model for his fashion show, any other person, even Seungyoon, anyone. But, instead, he let him in, he allowed him inside his heart, inside his mind, inside his dreams - of lust and passion and ravelling lips with teeth and flames.

  
He is a natural disaster, a perfect storm and Minho is waiting for it to roar on him, to get soaked by it. Seunghoon is made by the golden ratio; perfect proportions, perfect factions. He is like a wildflower, growing beautiful in the middle of the desert, inexplicable and incredible.

  
Minho should have known better than to chose him but he was thinking with his middle part, the one twitching painfully at one mere glance. Because, damn, Lee Seunghoon is nothing but hot, even with a plain t-shirt and shorts, the best model his agency has to offer - tall, slender, lustful, there is not a single part of him that doesn't scream excellence, perfection. He is so well made, all his measurements are what fashion designers are looking for, and his eyes and expression fit any requirement - sad, joyful, rueful, seductive, pissed off, all. As if he was crafted for this, to wear Minho's Paracosm designs - because he looks so ethereal and graceful in them, Minho can't choose his favourite (Seunghoon is his preferred, though, always will, because nothing can compare to him, to the things he makes Minho feels - tickles and bubbles and jolts of warmth on his lower part whenever a patch of skin is revealed, whenever he bits his lips in concentration, runs his hands over his jet, inked hair, messing it up gloriously).

His hands itch at the glorious view in display. Toned chest, sculped abs; his fingers want to meander on top of his graceful skin the colour of the spring; like rivulets, let them flood, let them be a deluge on him until he turns into a mess of wet lips and hands-on him. He wants to bulge with him - he wants his bulge to be released by his touch, by his lips. His thoughts are dirty again - but how to control his mind when Seunghoon is such a piece of art? He is a Fragonard painting: elegant and polish, erotic, spicy, eliciting, a mystery for his eyes to solve, to devour. 

  
He is undressing, revealing long, impossible legs, a tattoo peeking from beneath his underwear and another one on his nape, a beautiful masterpiece carved on his flesh, the taste of wild dreams and long nights in bed, kissing it reverently, like something sacred.  
It’s a relieve to be able to put his own garments on him, cover his flesh with silk and cotton, to let his fingers caress his skin as if an accident, unbutton shirts to reveal his collarbones, the beginning of his chest. To slid his hands on his hips to tighten his belt, to size his infinite legs with jeans and trousers that never really fit, that fall on him like a cascade.

  
His mind runs wild, he touches him uncontrollably, unprofessionally but Seunghoon doesn’t complain, he smiles on the mirror and watches how Minho brushes his shoulders, lingering on his neck a little longer than needed, lips gracing the surface of his carotid, where his life pulses, the life he wants to take, kissing it dry.

  
It’s been weeks of playing hard to be and every passing day Minho becomes bolder, savage, scratching gently just for Seunghoon to notice that he is here, that Minho wants him, that he is under his spell – has been since before meeting him, his fame preceding (that he is a hot mess, hard to handle, harder to resist, a temptation created to sin). He dresses him in satin see-through, laces and drapery, an illusion of bareness that it's not quite real - but that hardens his soft spot just the same, blood flooding his senses.

  
Today, though, Seunghoon turns when Minho slides his fingers further, thumbs stuck on the rim of his jeans, his chin on his shoulder, his breath warming his neck.  
Minho jerks, surprised by the sudden movement. Seunghoon, from above, graces him with a chuckle, leaning against him as if nothing, looks at him with his nocturnal eyes filled with urgency.

“I’m sorry,” Minho rushes to say, cheeks flemishing, heart-throbbing indomitable. Seunghoon walks and Minho is forced to pull back, chest against chest until he has him pinned against the wall, arms folded over his head. Then he lolls on him, lips parted by an inch. Like this Minho can see the constellations inside his eyes – these sharp, expressive eyes that now are tinted black with something that tastes like desire. “I was unprofessional.”

“You have been unprofessional since the beginning,” Seunghoon snarls, nearly a growl, “but don’t worry, I wouldn’t let you touch me this way if I didn’t want to,” he explains, smirking dangerously, captivating, so close that he can listen to the brunt of his heart. “You are slow, Minho Snow”, his laugh is wonderful. It tastes even better, now that Minho is swallowing it all, lips colliding finally, a tongue begging for an entrance that is instantly allowed. He is all animal and passion, a natural force.

Minho brings him home, hands undressing, revealing everything he has to offer, exposing to his hungry eyes flesh and bones that he is now allowed to grope and fondle, eating him alive.

He doesn't even care when Seunghoon pushes him down to his mattress, fingers playing on his ass, circling the entrance. He lets him in, he welcomes them with a groan of pleasure. He doesn't mind when Seunghoon presses his member in, thrusting hard, making him pan, breathe hastily. He doesn't complain when he sees stars, mouth open, tongue dry, his throat coarse of too many moans. He will limp tomorrow but, tonight, he has been fulfilled - he has touched fire.

“Do you like me?” he wonders, looking at him from atop, bed sheets tangled around his ankle, covering his bareness, his mocha skin that the moon is shading in grey. Seunghoon, under him, smirks.

  
“Not necessary,” he replies, pinching the mole of his nose. Minho pouts – and it’s cute, too cute to not kiss with a lazy mouth. “It just happened that I needed a fuck and you were around,” Minho shrink, indignant.

  
“So I’m nothing but a one-night-stand,” he protests to Seunghoon’s delight.  
“Not quite. We can repeat if you fancy it,” a wink, a yawn, a goodnight kiss and cuddles in bed. Minho is dumbfounded; this man curled half on him is unbelievable.

Sex with Seunghoon is more like dancing under the sheets, a passionate tango of control and dominance and hands romancing, travelling up and down. Open mouths dragging sloppy, wet kisses, hips circling, moving, twisting until between them ashes are ignited. Seunghoon thrusts inside with force and will and Minho moans accordingly, rough and unruly. He likes it. He likes the sight of Seunghoon aftermath when he has come and there is nothing left inside. His eyes are vortex and Minho gets lost on its dark, kissing him slowly until their breathes match. Having sex with Seunghoon is like fucking a star, hot, unreachable, untamable; like dancing with flames.

Having Seunghoon is much better, though, that just a one-night-stand.

Having Seunghoon around means food and laughs are granted - and Minho is amazed that he can cook at all -, cuddles in bed making fun out of bad movies, Haute licking his face, Jhonny purring under Seunghoon’s ministrations, being happy, having a model that stirs his creativity – someone who jokes about his mismatched fashion sense. Because Seunghoon looks great with jeans and T-shirt meanwhile Minho forces him to wear ten layers of shirts and jackets and suits that nobody can see, that are there for Minho to undo, peeling them one by one, hurrying to get to his flesh, piling them on the floor in a rush of passion and lust.

Having Seunghoon as his lover means that he doesn't need to pay for a model, he has his own right next to him, ready to be undressed by unprofessional hands that love to touch his skin, to kiss his lips.


End file.
